Show Me Your O Line
by rhombus
Summary: Aspiring Dr. Lewis tends to his patient. Kyle/Oliver college fic. Romantically fluffy.


**Show Me Your O-Line**

Kyle blew the air out of his cheeks, absently flipping through his structural biochem text, tapping his fingers on the desk, waiting, when suddenly the door flew open and thudded loudly against the wall.

"Whoops," Oliver said to no one in particular. He stopped and jerked his head back, apparently noticing Kyle for the first time. "Hey, uh, Kyle. What are you doing in here?"

Kyle fixed his eyes on his book. "Grouting tile."

Oliver tossed the football he had been carrying into the plastic storage container tucked between his bed and the sliding closet door. "You were waiting for me?"

"Yeah." Kyle closed the book with a resonant thump and smiled up at Oliver. "I thought we could, you know, hang out." He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

"Um, I'm all sweaty from scrimmage." Oliver risked a quick sniff of his underarm and squinched up his nose as if to say _Yikes!_

Kyle bit his lower lip then released it. "Didn't notice," he replied coolly. Lies. All lies. His eyes devoured the sight of Oliver's dampened shirt, how it clung to the skin in certain areas _just so_. He couldn't deny himself a secret smile, biting the insides of his cheeks so Oliver wouldn't see.

He let his gaze wander down, casually, leisurely. He paused at the sight of Oliver's bloody knee.

"Whoa. Nasty scrape."

"Bad tackle." Oliver looked down at his mangled leg and winced, as if reliving the fall.

"That could get infected. I should take a look at it."

"So pre-med means you diagnose now?"

"What can I say?" Kyle forced a smile. "I was a clumsy kid. I've got experience on my side." He pointed at the bed. "Now, sit."

"Right."

Oliver was pretty good at following orders. Sometimes that bothered Kyle. Other times... it was not a bad thing at all.

"Do you have any bandages?"

"There's a First Aid kit in... that drawer over there."

"Of course there is. That's our little boy scout; always prepared."

"Oh, shut up."

Kyle rummaged through the drawer until he found what he needed. "What? If you weren't a scout, I'll cut off my left hand."

"Well, yeah. Okay. So you know I _can_ take care of myself."

Kyle balanced a bottle of water, cloth, gauze, tape, and ointment in his arms and knelt in front of Oliver. "Yeah, but I feel responsible. I should clean up my messes." He wet the cloth and let it hover over Oliver's knee for a moment. "This is gonna hurt like a mofo. I've gotta get all this debris out first."

Kyle went to work and Oliver hissed through his teeth. "_Yssh_. How are you responsible?"

"Well, if I hadn't decided to stay in and study all afternoon, I could have been down there with you and, I don't know, made a good block or something."

"You think you'd be on the O-line? Seriously?"

Kyle shrugged. "Sure. Why not?" He spread the antibiotic ointment over the raw wound then positioned the gauze.

"Don't take this personally, Kyle, but you're not the biggest guy..."

"Yeah." He grinned, glancing up. "But I'm wily."

"True," Oliver conceded. He tilted his head and stared at the ceiling, seemingly lost in strategy. "But, you know, with your dexterity, I bet you'd be a good receiver."

Kyle choked back his laughter. Oliver, talking shop, had no idea what he had just implied. And it didn't help that Kyle was twelve years old. "Or a tight end," he teased.

Oliver shook his head. "No, that puts you back on the O-line—_ohhhhhh_." His cheeks bloomed bright red as realization struck. "Jokes," he muttered, looking anywhere except at Kyle.

"No, though, you're right. I can see the receiver thing." Putting the gauze to the side for a moment, Kyle pushed up his shirt sleeves and presented his forearms, front and back, then wiggled his fingers. "It's the hands. Very talented. It's like they were made to grab balls—" He paused for _just_ half a second. "—out of the air."

Oliver snorted. He brought his hand up to his mouth, trying to play it off as a coughing fit, but Kyle wasn't buying it.

"Admit it. That was kind of funny."

Oliver slowly swiveled his head back down to meet Kyle's gaze. Once their eyes met, it seemed as though he couldn't hold back any longer. His shoulders shook with laughter and a radiant smile crowned his reddened face. That smile, rare though it was, spread a pool of warmth through Kyle's chest, rippling out to the rest of his body, caressing his toes, the very tips of his fingers with its gentle, lapping waves.

Forcing himself to look back down at his work, he finished taping the gauze over the scrape.

"There. All better."

His hands lingered on Oliver's thigh, enjoying the feel of the hairs parting under his fingers then springing back to place. Without thinking, he leaned down and kissed the top of Oliver's knee, inhaling that salty scent he knew so well. He could hear Oliver sucking in a deep breath of his own.

He gave Oliver's leg a couple of friendly pats before standing to his feet. Looking around the impeccably tidy room, he absently rubbed a thumb over his left hand, massaging his knuckles. Oliver grabbed the hand and with unsteady fingers gingerly took over the massage.

"And this—" Oliver swallowed, as if steeling his nerve. "This is _my_ responsibility."

Kyle turned back to Oliver. "Hmm?"

Oliver squared his shoulders. "If—If I hadn't let _you_ stay in and study all afternoon, your, um, very, _very_ talented hands w-wouldn't be cramping from taking down so many notes." He brought Kyle's wrist to his mouth and laid a hesitant kiss on his pulse point. "All—all better?"

"_Oliver_." Kyle inhaled a little too quickly, his breath catching in his throat. "Are—are you...?" He gulped, trying to regain his composure. "I can't believe... You're actually _flirting_. With _me_."

Oliver stared up at him with blue eyes gone almost entirely black. "Is it working?"

Kyle exhaled. "You bet your ass it is." His cheek muscles burned under the weight of his massive smile. Flirty Oliver, with all the grace and footing of a newborn foal, might just have been the most _awesome_ thing he'd ever seen in his life.

Oliver brought Kyle's wrist, still in his grasp, over his shoulder and carefully placed it behind his head, pulling their bodies close. Kyle, bridging the leftover gap, lifted one knee to the bed, half-straddling Oliver. They took a few moments to steady their breathing. Then, mouths crashing together, they fell back in a balmy heap of arms and chests and tongues and warm breath and talented hands.

Oliver detached his lips from Kyle's just long enough to murmur, "Mmm... _Good_ tackle."


End file.
